


stasis as to vector

by ghoulgy



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boxing, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Tarot, background jihoon/jeonghan, bg minghao/seungcheol, incredibly tense conversations had over oranges, mentions of the other svt lads, mr robot references, ocasionally nonlinear, one scene where someone has a gun pointed at them but Do Not Worry, one very mysterious gun, persona 3/4 fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulgy/pseuds/ghoulgy
Summary: “Need another ride?” Seungkwan’s got two oranges this time, both half unpeeled and he shoves one into Mingyu’s hands, makes a face like consumption is compulsory.The fluorescent light fastened to the roof of the bus stop flickers petulantly, says "let the cute boy take you home."





	stasis as to vector

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Prince and the Policeman](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/396744) by patchworkearth. 



> alright time for the worlds longest authors note
> 
> This is set Marginally within the p3 and 4 universe. Some of the mechanics apply and i will reference certain events but all in all im just taking the existence of personas and applying them in a different way so this wont like spoil or rehash the games in any way! You dont have to have played the games to understand what this is about lol
> 
> the premise of this fic inspired by [this persona fic](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6377510/1/The-Prince-and-the-Policeman) i read 7 whole years ago. i changed a lot but the Main Plot Point was taken from it! if u like persona u should totally read it!
> 
> P3 crew: seungkwan, wonwoo, joshua, vernon  
> P4 crew: mingyu scoups chan jun jeonghan minghao  
> Unaffiliated, non persona users: jihoon, seokmin, soonyoung
> 
> If u dont know anything about the games here are a few things to know (if u know the basics already then u can skip this):
> 
> Personas-physical manifestations of your “hidden self” that you have to accept, basically like. A buddy that you use to fight in battles
> 
> Evokers- used in p3, a gun shaped item used to trigger the manifestation of the user’s persona 
> 
> Persona 3 basics-people were affected by apathy sickness caused by monsters or “shadows” in the area, main mission is to climb a tower and defeat shadows to stop the end of the world, SEES (Specialized Extracurricular Execution Squad) was a secret school club comprised of persona users dedicated to preventing the end of the world
> 
> Persona 4 basics-murders occur in a small town and youre tasked with figuring out who the culprit is, this one introduced the concept of accepting the physical manifestation of one’s own darkest thoughts and feelings. I changed this to simply confronting these things in a mirror!
> 
> Velvet room-a place that exists in another dimension that usually only the Main Character in a given game has access to. Everyone technically has access to it in this fiction because i do what i want. Its also a bus in this.
> 
> thats about it! i hope this isnt wildly confusing!

runnin a red light   
i open my mouth but nothin comes out   
playing a safe love is far from anything i couldnt say

honest boy - the happy children 

 

Oddly enough, the worst part about moving away from home isn’t the absence of authority figures, it’s the pieces of home Mingyu takes with him.

 

Most pieces are accidental, intangible, which is why Mingyu thought he could leave them behind in the first place, if he tried hard enough. He learns quickly that there are some things that never leave you.

 

There’s still smoke in his bathroom if he closes his eyes for too long. There’s still a body on the roof. He doesn’t want to confront the fact that when he left home, the things he thought he left behind followed him down winding roads and staircases and ended up perched at the end of his bed like they’ve always been.

 

He never sleeps with the light off.

 

There are a total of thirteen different ways Mingyu’s life can turn out. He doesn’t know this, of course. Someone always does, but it’s never the right person at the right time. He’s been stuck on track one for years, since he left high school.

 

There are approximately thirteen steps in the journey to becoming the Real Kim Mingyu. He’s been stuck on step one of that particular ladder for even longer.

 

He is: a fool, he is untethered, he is at the beginning of his journey. It takes a lot to get to step two. Namely, a suspected haunting and the discovery of a gun.

 

It really begins six months after moving to Seoul. Mingyu falls head over heels in love with the mystery of his apartment complex. He’s probably more in love with the mystery than he is with his girlfriend, which is probably why she breaks up with him three days after he starts googling the Paranormal Activity movies. He finds that he doesn’t really mind. They were never meant to be anyway.

 

The ghost, though, that’s a whole other story. It’s a distraction that starts innocuously, with the creak of an upstairs neighbor that shouldn’t exist, it escalates with every power outage and every addressless bill that winds up on his doorstep.

 

The conclusion Mingyu comes to before a formal investigation is that the place has got to be haunted. He’s entranced with the idea of a spectre in his halls, a dead man with a story hidden somewhere behind all the smoke. He spends a few nights in Jihoon’s basement bemoaning the poltergeist in his bed before he takes matters into his own hands and begins the paranormal investigation (or, before he does some intensive social media stalking and some less than ethical email searching).

 

“Make some new friends” Jihoon seethes one night, grappling with the arm Mingyu has around his shoulder. “I’m sick of you.”

 

Mingyu sends him an over-exaggerated pout in return. Jihoon rarely means the things he says, so Mingyu never takes his words to heart.

 

The emails Mingyu ends up going through prove that all he’s got to worry about is rats and identity theft. Both are, surprisingly, not preferable to ghosts.

 

Even with the threat of a ghost averted, some tangible force haunts the apartment complex still. Mingyu feels it every time he’s in the hall, every time he locks his door at night.

 

He finds that he has more investigating to do.

 

At least, Mingyu knows himself to be perfectly qualified for certain types of sensitive explorations into the lives of his neighbors. Mingyu’s in the business of knowing shit he shouldn’t. He knows his landlord has a mistress. Knows his therapist dabbles in online roleplaying, even though she’s not very good at it. He knows the man down the block collects exotic, illegal pets. Each person is as unique and secretive as the next, and yet they’re all equally predictable.

 

Everyone has a secret of one sort or another. Mingyu’s good at getting to the heart of the matter, he’s good at figuring out what the secrets mean.

 

Or, well, he used to be.

 

Because two weeks into his second investigation, Mingyu learns his neighbor has a gun. Which is fine, he’s allowed one, seeing how he’s a uniformed police officer and all. Just… it wouldn’t be as suspicious as it is if Seungkwan wasn’t such a private person. If Mingyu could figure out what it all meant in the grand scheme of things.

 

Mingyu’s seen the gun twice. Once, when his microwave broke and he’d convinced Seungkwan to let him in for the length of the time it took to heat up a hot pocket. He’d opened a drawer at random, like some sort of fucking weirdo, and Seungkwan slammed it closed in the next second. Mingyu’s fingers had not escaped that one unscathed. At least that time Seungkwan had seemed vaguely apologetic.

 

The second time, Mingyu’s fingers got caught in Seungkwan’s glove box when he’d just been looking for some fucking tissues. Seungkwan made no attempt to apologize.

 

“Stop opening things that don’t belong to you,” Seungkwan had said, scoffing as Mingyu cradled his injured hand. “You deserved that one.”

 

Maybe he did. It still hurt, though.

 

The real kicker is that Mingyu doesn’t think that’s the only gun Seungkwan has. He’s got to have two, he’s got to. Because there’s one in his holster and one in his drawer and Mingyu can’t stop thinking about the way Seungkwan looks at him from the crack in his door.

 

Like he’s expecting something. Like he knows who Mingyu is and what he’s doing.

 

Like he’s not who he says he is at all.

 

 

“Is there a reason you own a flip-phone?” Jeonghan asks, two fingers feeling the pulse on the inside of Mingyu’s wrist. “Because I’ve been trying to figure out what it could mean for you as a person. All signs point toward your inability to assimilate into a culture you’re unfamiliar with. My bets are on you’re an alien. Jihoon thinks you deal drugs.”

 

“Maybe I am a drug dealer,” Mingyu says, kicking his legs out in front of him rhythmically. “No way for you to know.”

 

Jeonghan hums. “Except I know who deals drugs around here.” He takes his hand away from Mingyu’s wrist and makes note of his pulse on a piece of scrap paper. “You’re too soft for them.”

 

The light flickers above Mingyu’s head and the whole room goes dark for a moment while a train passes overhead and the metal table that holds Mingyu threatens to collapse under his weight as it rattles loudly. Jeonghan clears his throat, a sign he’s growing irritated with his own office space. For what it’s worth, Mingyu enjoys how dingy Jeonghan’s place is, makes the whole transaction seem all the more dangerous.

 

Mingyu fashions himself an all black ensemble in his head and pretends he’s a foreign spy.

 

“You’re rude.” Mingyu pouts as he sticks his arm out for Jeonghan to draw blood from. “They all think I’m perfectly nice.”

 

“Right, because that’s what you want in a business partner,” Jeonghan’s voice wavers a bit and Mingyu’s certain it’s the exhaustion.

 

It’s been close to four years since he and Jeonghan met and there’s never been a day in their acquaintanceship where Jeonghan has looked anything close to well-rested. Maybe that’s what running an underground medical clinic does to you. Mingyu has his theories. Not that he ever looks any better, personally, so he certainly can’t judge.

 

“You know…” Jeonghan speaks up again after a lull, the chatter from the next room building to a crescendo. “Seungcheol’s been calling me. Trying to get in contact with you.”

 

Mingyu sighs, rolling his shoulders and letting his head hang limp between them. “I can’t talk to him.”

 

The steady drip of water from the leaky faucet in the corner begins to work its magic on the inside of Mingyu’s skull, the sound reverberating, echoing inside his head.

 

“Just thought you’d want to know.”

 

“Thanks,” he says, but it lacks conviction.

 

There’s a moment where it seems like maybe Jeonghan will say something more, where he’ll throw off his surgical gloves and begin chattering away about the things Mingyu left behind when he moved away from home.

 

Another train passes over head.

 

“I’ll let you know about your blood test tomorrow, ‘kay?” Jeonghan spins around in his chair and exhales heavily. “I’ve got an appointment in, like, 15 minutes, so it’d be nice if you could get on out of here.”

 

“Wow, thanks, hyung.”

 

“Not that I don’t like seeing you.” Jeonghan smiles wickedly as he twirls. “It’s just that I _really_ don’t like seeing you.”

 

“Before you kick me out,” Mingyu says, moving to lean over Jeonghan, using his height as an intimidation factor in jest. “I have a… cop related question.”

 

Jeonghan immediately pales. “What kind of fucking trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

 

“No trouble!” Mingyu leans backward and pats Jeonghan on the shoulder as if it will calm him down. Mingyu likes to think it helps a little. “Just… Do you know anything about Officer Boo Seungkwan?”

 

Jeonghan exhales and pushes his hair back out of his face, a nervous habit he picked up from Jihoon months back. “Never heard the name before. Could be new, I’ll ask around. But you _seriously_ need to stay away from the cops, Mingyu. I don’t know if I can get you out of another mess, Wonwoo’s already in deep shit for bailing you out last time.”

 

Mingyu has not forgotten the favor he owes Wonwoo. He hesitates to acknowledge Wonwoo’s role in any of this. It had been odd, the way he’d shown up out of the vapor like some sort of stage magician just to tap Mingyu on the head and spirit him away from the police station in the night. Jeonghan says he’s got Wonwoo in his pocket, but there’s something in his eyes that spells mischief, that says he knows what Mingyu knows. And there’s nothing worse than a cop who knows too much.

 

“Got it. No cops.” Mingyu throws out his most convincing _I’ll-try-my-best_ smile. He’s never thought himself a good actor, though. And judging by the look Jeonghan gives him, the doctor doesn’t think so either.

 

“Get out of my sight before I fucking lose it,” Jeonghan says through his teeth as he clicks his pen furiously. “I’ll call you next week.”

 

Mingyu grabs his coat and dashes out of Jeonghan’s basement clinic as fast as he’s physically able.

 

 

Mingyu wakes up to 27 new messages from one Lee Chan.

 

At least he bought two burner phones, last time. The current one takes a quick bath in hot water while Mingyu brushes his teeth.

 

 

The bus home makes four stops before it reaches Mingyu’s apartment complex. Or it would have. If it had shown up.

 

There’s something about the night that surrounds the flickering fluorescent light of this bus stop without seating that seems wide and vast. Mingyu can’t see ten feet out in any direction.

 

He’s alone on this planet, lit only by the last determined struggle of a lightbulb that desperately needs changing. The panic sets in quickly. Deep breathing seems futile, has always seemed futile, even when Mingyu actually went to therapy.

 

It didn’t help before. It didn’t help when strangers told him things about himself that he _knew_ weren’t true.

 

But that’s neither here nor there.

 

There’s the thought that if he truly is the last person alive, he will have no choice but to confront himself. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to thwart any rouge trains of thought. He contemplates launching his phone out into the night.

 

Instead, he flips it open and checks the time. 11:59. His bus should have shown up an hour ago. Mingyu watches as his clock ticks to 12 with a labored breath.

 

“It’s running late,” a voice comes from Mingyu’s blind spot. Nothing about _that_ is okay.

 

The scramble to spin on his heels leaves Mingyu on the edge of falling flat on his ass. Seungkwan does not react in the way one would expect.

 

He watches Mingyu fall gracelessly to the ground with a tilt of his head.

 

“Holy fuck,” Mingyu sputters, grappling with his surroundings to stand back up again. “Where’d you come from?”

 

Seungkwan just hooks a thumb over his shoulder with a shrug. “Didn’t think you were this jumpy,” he says simply. He has a half-peeled orange in his hand.

 

Mingyu feels suddenly like he’s in the midst of a fever dream.

 

Of all the places he was expecting to see Mr. Police Officer, the bad part of town was certainly not near the top of the list.

 

“Anyone would jump if you snuck up on them like that,” Mingyu hisses as he straightens himself up. The panic from before is gone, but only because he _knows_ what Seungkwan keeps in his holster. And if any shadows cast by the bus stop were to come to life, Mingyu is well aware that Seungkwan knows how to use it.

 

That in itself is a comfort, even if Mingyu doesn’t know Seungkwan that well.

 

They stand in silence for a few beats, Seungkwan absentmindedly peeling his orange and Mingyu breathing heavily in the dark.

 

“You live next door,” Seungkwan says suddenly, startling Mingyu once more.

 

“You should come with a warning label,” Mingyu says quickly, eyes darting out into the vast night.

 

That seems to work some sort of a reaction out of Seungkwan because his face bunches up and he cracks a knuckle needlessly.

 

“Sometimes people are loud, Mingyu-ssi.” A pause where Mingyu can really almost see Seungkwan’s thoughts splayed out across his face. “You _do_ live next door, don’t you?”

 

The double-checking seems odd. If he didn’t know any better, Mingyu would take Seungkwan’s disposition for feigned indifference, but that makes no sense. Seungkwan has never paid enough attention to Mingyu for there to be any need for the pretense.

 

He shoots Seungkwan an incredulous look. “Yes?”

 

“Don’t sound so uncertain,” Seungkwan says as he finishes peeling his orange and shoves the peel in his back pocket like some sort of weirdo. “It’s not flattering.”

 

Mingyu supposes he should be offended. But the way Seungkwan says it, like it’s a fact, like he’s an expert, makes Mingyu grin despite himself.

 

“Yes, I live next door,” he repeats, making sure to imbue as much confidence into his voice as is physically possible. This results in Mingyu sounding quite like he’s just swallowed a frog.

 

Seungkwan’s lips turn up at the edges, but he seems to tamp out the smile quickly. He pops an orange slice in his mouth and speaks around it. “I can give you a ride home again, if you’d like.”

 

“I went through your things last time,” Mingyu points out. Sometimes his mouth works faster than his brain.

 

“You did,” Seungkwan hums, pops another orange slice in his mouth and then offers one to Mingyu. He blinks when Mingyu doesn’t take it. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

 

Seungkwan steps off the curb and into the street before Mingyu can contradict him. He’s got impeccable posture, Mingyu can’t help but notice it as he sizes up his neighbor's small frame. But that’s another thing, Seungkwan is far more put together than in the times Mingyu’s seen him in the past.

 

Other times, Seungkwan’s been a frazzled, aggravated mess. Like an untrained puppy. Like a live wire Mingyu dared not touch.

 

He’s different now, cooler. Somehow.

 

Anyway, Seungkwan _knows_ Mingyu lives next door. The question was redundant.

 

The car ride passes in relative silence. All Mingyu’s got to say is _thanks_ and all Seungkwan replies with is offers of various fruits he’s got tucked in his backseat.

 

Mingyu wonders how much police work pays, if Seungkwan grows pears to make ends meet. But that’s silly.

 

“Why were you at the bus stop?” Mingyu asks, peeling an orange. Just to have something to do with his hands, he really has no intention of eating it.

 

“Do I have to have a reason?” Seungkwan shoots back quickly, eyes flitting to Mingyu’s face for a split second. “Can’t I just be places, hyung?”

 

The _hyung_ rolls off Seungkwan’s tongue like an intentional falsehood. The sound of it must taste like ash. “You have a car.”

 

It’s not the most obvious thing Mingyu has ever pointed out, but it does make him feel suddenly like he’s the dumbest person in a room of two. Seungkwan somehow makes him feel so small in every conceivable way. It might be payback for the invasiveness, or maybe it’s just his personality.

 

Although, he seems much nicer online, at least to his friends.

 

“Where’d you go to high school?” Seungkwan asks suddenly.

 

Mingyu can tell they’re moments away from home, so the conversation topic seems forced. But that’s fine, really. Small talk has never been Mingyu’s thing, so he appreciates at least that Seungkwan is trying to take the lead, to get Mingyu to reveal something about himself, no matter how small.

 

The question is innocuous, or it really should be.

 

“Kyungnam,” he replies. Forgets about all the questions that usually come with that admission.

 

A split second after he says it, he regrets it. He should have lied, he should have spit out anything but the black stain on his carpet, the shadow that looms over him while he sleeps. But it’s out now, floating around in the air, fogging up the windows. He clenches his jaw, looks at Seungkwan straight on and dares him to ask what he knows is on the kid’s mind.

 

_Was it hard? Was it someone you knew? Do you think about it, still, even after all these years?_

 

“Good school,” Seungkwan says instead.

 

He has an orange peel in his lap.

 

They pass the art museum and the statues outside have something to say, their mouths open to the sky. More often than not, they catch rainwater. Mingyu watched as they were installed weeks ago, sitting in the coffee shop across the street pretending to work but getting nothing done. The high priestess went up last, her arms outstretched and mouth agape as if in the midst of a word. Mingyu thinks she would be the loudest. If she could just get the consonants out around the stone in her throat.

 

Seungkwan sits in the shade she provides, some days. Mingyu can see him from the window as he sips his coffee on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

 

It doesn’t seem like he’s doing much of anything, just breathing, just letting himself exist. Mingyu wonders if he can hear what the statues have to say. Like maybe that’s the secret.

 

Sometimes he’s there for hours. Sometimes he’s crying.

 

If the statues could speak, Mingyu thinks they’d be saying _rest_.

 

Maybe they’d let both of them know it’s okay to still have nightmares.

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Mingyu chokes out when Seungkwan pulls into his parking spot.

 

The wind whips his hair around, into his eyes. He can’t see Seungkwan for a moment, but he hears him laugh, finally.

 

“Anytime,” Seungkwan says, voice filled with the aftermath of jubilation.

 

Mingyu feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

 

 

Mingyu has two dreams in a row.

 

The first takes him back to high school and he’s been crowned emperor and everyone thinks he knows what he’s doing, thinks he knows himself. He’s got a fish in his hand and he’s being asked to gut it. He doesn’t. Of course. He can’t.

 

So, he has to eat it whole. The scales don’t go down well and his whole class watches him struggle without blinking. The empress has the sick smile of someone hoping for ruin. He thinks he sees his own eyes staring back at him from the crowd.

 

The second dream is more comfortable because he’s back in bed. The only weird part about it is that his neighbor has a gun pressed between his eyes and he’s speaking backwards, frantically, like he doesn’t have enough time.

 

It all just sounds like it’s taking place underwater.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

 

Mingyu thinks he sees Seungkwan pull the trigger. He wakes up in bed.

 

 

“Not to be rude or anything.” Soonyoung uses his rolling chair to drift over to Mingyu’s desk while still seated. “But when are you gonna get any actual work done?”

 

“When I want to,” Mingyu replies easily, eyes still scanning Seungkwan’s latest email with someone by the name _GetRekt_.

 

“You know you can only figure out so much about a person by reading their emails,” Soonyoung provides rather unhelpfully.

 

Mingyu knows the limits of his own profession, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

 

“Can you think of anyone in recent memory you’ve spoken to outside of this room?” Mingyu asks, his focus never leaving the words _getting closer._

 

“I could ask you the same question,” Soonyoung fires back.

 

This type of banter with Soonyoung would cheer him up. Usually. But there’s just something about the day that feels off. Mingyu’s waiting for some sort of sign, something to tell him which direction he should be moving in.

 

He’s spending an impressive amount of time trying to convince himself that Seungkwan is only interesting because of the gun. The consensus is that his laugh _isn’t_ what makes Mingyu’s heart beat so fast when he’s around, that it’s just the bullets and the black oil that pools around his feet when he walks.

 

Mingyu fashions himself a hierophant, a priest far more qualified to deal with all of this than he is. He asks the shadow to read his palms, to pour over his memory for anything of use.

 

The oranges mean… something in the grand scheme of things.

 

Seungkwan’s got cheeks that make Mingyu want to pinch them. That means… something. Nothing. Who knows?

 

Mingyu’s phone rings in his pocket and startles him out of his thoughts. Soonyoung’s already back over at his computer, typing away furiously and speaking to Seokmin at a million miles an hour.

 

Mingyu knows who it is before he picks up.

 

“Please, please don’t hang up,” Seungcheol says.

 

Mingyu hesitates, listens to Seungcheol breathe on the other line for a moment.

 

Any other day, maybe he would have listened for a bit longer, maybe he would have counted backwards from twenty before depositing his cell in the nearest trash can.

 

But it’s today, so things go differently. Seungcheol never calls at the right time.

 

Mingyu places his phone under his foot and crushes it with his heel. He pivots. Like he’s killing a bug.

 

It feels nice.

 

 

“He’s got some friends in some pretty high places,” Jeonghan’s voice comes sweet through the phone receiver. “I wish I could tell you they’re all lovers, but Wonwoo says they’re not.”

 

Mingyu takes the call on the train, holding his new phone close to his face. It serves a dual purpose. Being perceived has never been Mingyu’s favorite activity, the thin metal pressed close to his ear makes him invisible. Or, close to it.

 

“Vernon, right?” Mingyu breathes out his nose, annoyance creeping up and over his shoulders like a thick blanket.

 

Nothing’s been going right recently. Jeonghan’s call comes at a bad time, although most times are bad nowadays.

 

“Among others,” Jeonghan responds with a laugh. “I bet I can tell you something you don’t know about him.”

 

“Doubt it,” Mingyu says.

 

He’s agonized over every piece of information he could get his hands on regarding the kid. There’s really not much, a few awards, one video of him singing karaoke from years ago. Nothing substantial, nothing telling.

 

All the signs point toward him being a truly exceptional singer, nothing else.

 

“He dropped out of college sophomore year for reasons he has yet to reveal to the rest of the police force,” Jeonghan drawls, so sure of himself it leaks into his tone, into Mingyu’s ear.

 

Mingyu shakes his head to get rid of the sinking feeling in his chest, Jeonghan’s insidious voice gnawing at his dendrites all the while. Nothing new, nothing new.

 

“Next.”

 

“He’s from Jeju.”

 

Now _that’s_ new. Mingyu can almost see the pleased smile stretch across Jeonghan’s features.

 

To be fair, he knew Seungkwan wasn’t from Seoul. He’s far too optimistic to have been living in the city his whole life.

 

“Still not a lot to go on,” Mingyu says, leaning back in his seat and letting his head hit the window. “Anything else?”

 

“No, Mingyu.” The laughter fades out of Jeonghan’s voice, steady, dripping. “I mean, like, he was there, he went to Daykey.”

 

The sudden familiarity of the name hits Mingyu like a bus. Anxiety crawls its way across his chest and works its way around his heart, clenching, working the air right out of his lungs.  “Okay,” he says instead of anything more useful.

 

Thing is, you can’t talk about Kyungnam without talking about Daykey, the events were like mirror images, the people mere distortions in a picture that was otherwise clear as day.

 

Mingyu knows where this conversation is headed, hears the words in the space before Jeonghan actually speaks.

 

“Seungcheol told me he tried calling,” Jeonghan says after a beat and Mingyu can barely hear him over the crowd. But he knows this script, he’s been studying it for long enough.

 

His knowledge passes for a sick sort of memorization, everything in Jeonghan’s tone is identical to how it always is. This is not new: he’s disappointed.

 

“You gave him my number,” Mingyu says, devoid of intonation or accusatory undertones. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

 

“He wants to help,” Jeonghan’s voice takes on a desperate edge, and Mingyu imagines he’s leaning forward in his chair. “He knows more about all of this than either of us.”

 

This is a conversation they’ve had millions of times. It always ends the same way. “He can’t help.” It’s almost like a routine now.

 

“I think you should let him try one day. He misses you, they all do.”

 

It’s not like Mingyu doesn’t miss everyone back home, too. It’s just that their shared history isn’t exactly picturesque, it’s just that it’s them he ran away from, along with everything else.

 

Jeonghan was there when the smoke gathered, but he was braver than Mingyu was. Is. Will ever be. There are lots of bad parts, nothing in particular stands out as the worst.

 

It’s awful to know he failed them all so miserably.

 

Facing Jeonghan alone is hard. Seeing Seungcheol again would be agony.

 

“You’re the last person I need this lecture from.”

 

“I just think--”

 

“You left, too.”

 

That’s what Mingyu has to cling to. He has to. What he really means is, _Jeonghan has nightmares, too._

 

“That’s not the point,” Jeonghan tries.

 

“ _You left, too.”_

 

 

“Have you slept recently?” Seungkwan taps Mingyu’s coffee table contemplatively.

 

They’re watching some show Seungkwan’s incredibly fond of, something with slow motion shots and exaggerated acting. He’s only in Mingyu’s apartment because his TV broke, or his WiFi’s out or the complex is on fire, something like that. Mingyu hadn’t really listened past _I know it’s late and all but…_

 

Perhaps letting near strangers into your apartment at 12 o’clock at night is foolhardy. But then again, Seungkwan isn’t exactly a stranger.

 

Some cursory browsing of the kid’s social media and his three separate email accounts told Mingyu that Seungkwan is probably a normal human being. That he has two sisters and his best friend knows some very influential people. Letting Seungkwan in is probably more about filling in the gaps. Probably.

 

There’s a lack of substance to some of Seungkwan’s online presence. It feels like a set up, like he’s just been waiting for the right person to stumble across it. Mingyu can’t exactly piece together what that means yet.

 

But all three of his emails were created two years ago. Which is weird. Mingyu thinks so, at least.

 

“Earth to long legs.” Seungkwan waves a hand lazily in front of Mingyu’s face, exasperation clear in his tone. “I asked you a question.”

 

“You did.” Mingyu mentally rewinds the last four minutes to try and figure out what the fuck he missed while spacing out. “And the answer is… _yes?_ ”

 

“That sounds like another question,” Seungkwan sighs and settles back further into the couch. “I asked if you’ve slept recently.”

 

Mingyu blinks. Seungkwan has his eyes trained on the TV in a concerted and obvious effort to avoid looking at the only other person in the room with him.

 

That’s something.

 

“Do you have a problem with eye contact?” Mingyu turns to face Seungkwan on the couch fully.

 

Seungkwan’s face twitches, near his temple on the left side. Mingyu watches his face contort with wonder.

 

“Because if you haven’t slept, I can just go,” Seungkwan continues, jaw clenched.

 

He’s uncomfortable. Mingyu itches to push him further into uncharted territory. All his instincts say that he’s found something important, that this is a vein he has to hit before he gets to the good stuff, the heart.

 

Mingyu thinks of the statues, the lovers intertwined at the bottom of the stairs, their mouths open, their lungs full of stone. Maybe he’ll end up like them if he keeps at it like this.

 

“Look me in the eyes and maybe I’ll answer you,” Mingyu says, almost on reflex.

 

He’s pursuing something he can’t quite see himself.

 

The force with which Seungkwan whips his head around is enough to send shockwaves through half the city. “You’re awful,” Seungkwan says, his eyes boring into Mingyu’s own with an intensity he wasn’t aware Seungkwan was capable of. “Go to sleep.”

 

Mingyu blinks. Three times, slow and deliberate. Seungkwan stares and his eyes swallow Mingyu whole.

 

It’s too much attention to have, Mingyu pales quickly, realizes he’s gotten himself in over his head before he even knew he was in the water. Seungkwan does not waver, in the seconds between his last words and Mingyu’s retreat, he stays steady.

 

“Did you hear me that time?”

 

A fire burns its way through the center of Mingyu’s skull. He hasn’t felt anything like this in a long time.

 

He swallows. “Yeah.”

 

 

Joshua has a lovely house. Mingyu thinks that’s something he wasn’t supposed to notice.

 

The columns at the front whisper twisted words in Latin straight down Mingyu’s neck as he walks in, trailing behind Seungkwan like a lost puppy. Or, someone tells him he looks like a lost puppy as he slips inside, eager to disappear into the walls.

 

The policemen that buzz about from room to room are chattering about something, maybe cases, maybe suspects. Perhaps it does not matter. The wallpaper peels back with every breath they take, with every word out of their mouths.

 

The hive mind speaks, but not in a language Mingyu is capable of understanding.

 

All he hears is _Memento mori, memento mori._

 

Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Joshua is saying, smiling with his eyes.

 

Mingyu smiles back, but he knows it’s only half as genuine as he means to make it. _Finally_ is certainly an odd word.

 

Seungkwan’s been talking about him.

 

“Thanks for letting me bring him,” Seungkwan interjects, sending a glare Joshua’s way.

 

“It really was my pleasure.” Every word is practiced, perfect. He has the air of nobility about him.

 

The paintings on the wall scream _new money_. Joshua is the type of cultured that makes the hair on the back of Mingyu’s neck stand up. He shifts uncomfortably as he waits for someone to say something. Then, if occurs to him that, according to all social norms, he should be the one speaking.

 

He lets himself look at Seungkwan for a moment, admires his side profile and the way his nose slopes. The moment goes on for too long. “It’s nice to meet you, Joshua-ssi,” he says. He’s looking at Seungkwan the whole time.

 

Seungkwan turns and rolls his eyes, gets up on his tiptoes and whispers straight into Mingyu’s ear, more breath than sound. “Play nice.” The words tumble out of Seungkwan’s mouth purposefully, and then he’s gone. An empty space looms by Mingyu’s shoulder and he gets the distinct impression he’s supposed to make a friend.

 

Mingyu nods at no one in particular.

 

“He’s quite taken with you,” Joshua says after a tense moment where Mingyu simply stares at Seungkwan’s back disappearing into the crowd.

 

Maybe Mingyu already knew that, deep down in whatever is left in his chest.

 

Not his heart, certainly not his heart.

 

“Is he?” Mingyu breathes out, reaching for a passing tray of champagne.

 

“Let’s not play this game,” Joshua smiles again, laughing lightly at the way Mingyu straightens himself up as he takes a sip of his drink. “Feigned ignorance isn’t a good look on you.”

 

Mingyu snorts, the tremor in his hands becoming more evident by the second. “So I’ve been told.”

 

“He’s told me a lot about you.”

 

Mingyu knows these things, but it doesn’t stop his heart from becoming the drumbeat to the panicked song that plays in the back of his head.

 

The room shrinks a bit with each step Joshua takes forward, with every kind smile he throws Mingyu’s way. There’s no way of knowing what Joshua knows about him, how much Seungkwan has divulged.

 

The conversation stays surface level, the room turning with every step they take. It becomes a dance, Mingyu blinks and Joshua’s got a hand on his forearm, leading him along in circles.

 

Mingyu thinks that Joshua must have taken classes to learn to speak as well as he does, he frames everything perfectly and every syllable that rolls its way off his tongue is rounded, full. He’s got the same refined spirit that Junhui has, in everything from his posture to the way he never lets Mingyu ask a single question.

 

The condensation on the outside of his champagne glass leaks down his fingers and drips to the ground. The sound of it is deafening.

 

“It gets bad for him, sometimes,” Joshua leans in once they’re across the room. He’s looking at Seungkwan, who’s laughing loudly by the punch. “You should know he doesn’t have it easy here.”

 

“I don’t think any of you do.” Mingyu blinks, unsure as to why this is a relevant topic of conversation at all.

 

Joshua’s practiced words seem to fade away, momentarily. Like this is the least rehearsed thing he’s said all night.

 

“I mean, it’s been really tough for him for a long time.” Joshua purses his lips, looking almost pensive. Unsure. “I think you have more in common with him than you might be aware of.”

 

A wave of unease settles over Mingyu and he pulls his shoulders up toward his ears, closer to defensive position. The strength in his hands is all but gone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Maybe he shouldn’t be talking to police officers like this, let alone Seungkwan’s superiors. Maybe any hint at someone claiming to understand him rubs him the wrong way regardless of who’s speaking.

 

“It means…” A pause where Joshua scans the line of Mingyu’s jaw and traces a finger along the rim of his glass. “He’s had to face himself more times than I can count. He’s a better person for it.”

 

But that’s too close to home.

 

There’s a closet back in Busan filled with a few oranges and a pocketful of smoke that Mingyu dares not disturb. There, behind the socks and baseball cards, is a compact mirror, inconsequential upon first glance, but Mingyu knows exactly what lies inside.

 

They said it happened to them, too. Seungcheol didn’t come to school for a week and a half, he could barely look at himself for months afterwards. Chan’s was easy, because Chan already knew himself. Because Chan had an idea about what was coming. Junhui locked himself in Mingyu’s bathroom and wept, but there was really nothing Mingyu could do, he couldn’t hear what it was saying, he couldn’t reassure any of them. Because he didn’t know what was happening to them.

 

Jeonghan described it as a chill, at first, a cold feeling in the center of the forehead that spread downward toward the extremities. Mingyu remembers Jeonghan talking about the days leading up to the climax of it all, the way his fingers shook as he spoke of mirrors that winked back at him, the way his voice wavered when he described seeing himself, truly seeing himself for the first time.

 

None of them ever told him what they were meant to accept about themselves. What Mingyu does know is that they knew these things to be true, it was just a matter of saying them out loud, of confirming deep seated insecurities and anger. It is a matter of knowing yourself.

 

When it happens to Mingyu, he’s using his sister’s compact mirror to fix his bangs, three months after whatever’s behind the mirror takes her away.

 

He doesn’t know at the time, but the secret to it all is that they’re all going to die one day.

 

The first irregular blink in the tiny pink mirror sends a cold bullet straight through Mingyu’s soul. He thinks he’s ready for what’s coming, he’s had enough warning to know that it won’t be easy.

 

Though, nothing really ever works out like you think it will.

 

 _I’m kind of glad she’s gone,_ the thing in the mirror says with Mingyu’s mouth.

 

Rage that Mingyu thought had receded out of his body long ago rises to the surface once more and all he sees is red, despite the chill that washes over him.

 

“How could I ever think that?” Mingyu seethes, suddenly very aware of his limbs, of his fingers and toes going numb. “What kind of person would think like that?”

 

 _She was so much better at everything than us,_ the thing says. Its eyes are yellow. _Mom and dad loved her more. Don’t you feel that? The relief? The pressure’s off. We’re free._

 

The tears that roll down his cheeks feel foreign but he is not compelled to wipe them away. The hole his sister left in his life is still gaping, massive, bloody, _raw_ . He cannot entertain this mirror image of himself, because what it’s saying _isn’t true._

 

It’s not true. It can’t be true.

 

“ _We_ aren’t anything. Stop acting like you know me,” Mingyu says, but his voice is only half there.

 

_But Mingyu. I am you._

 

Mingyu leaves before the murders stop, packs up his bags and flees to Seoul faster than he’s done anything in his life. There’s no closure there. Jeonghan moved with him, weeks later, after they’d caught the guy, after the mirrors stopped speaking and the smoke stopped leaking out of Mingyu’s closet.

 

There’s still something shameful about the whole thing. He’s never told a soul what he heard. Will probably keep it with him until he croaks, until he’s being put in the ground at a funeral with no attendees.

 

Seungcheol worked tirelessly to bring Mingyu’s sister the justice she deserved, to bring everyone the ending they needed. Chan and Junhui and Jeonghan often went days without sleep as they slowly lost their minds in the fog. They’ve got more strength in them than Mingyu has ever been able to muster. There’s shame in that, there’s shame in the way he still has nightmares like he has any right to mourn, to be afraid like they are. They stayed and fought.

 

Mingyu just ran.

 

Joshua taps Mingyu’s shoulder and clears his throat. “You should ask him about it. Facing himself, I mean. Sometimes the way things are don’t line up with how we want them to be. Life isn’t always pretty.”

 

The words are mostly incomprehensible. It makes no sense for Joshua to be saying these things to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu chokes out, brain filled with static. “I have to go.”

 

All he hears on his way out is the buzz of hundreds of bees swarming inside the walls. _Memento mori_ , they chirp as one, _memento mori_.

 

Running has always been the easiest part.

 

 

The gun is in one of Seungkwan’s kitchen drawers. It feels almost like a toy, but Mingyu knows what the real thing looks like, knows what it feels like to hold certain death in your hands.

 

There are four roman letters carved in the barrel, but they don’t mean anything to Mingyu, but he thinks maybe they should. As he turns the gun over and over in his hands, he tries and fails to comprehend the pattern in the granite countertop. Its infinite wisdom is lost on him.

 

Mingyu tries his best to gather his thoughts, but the only thing left in his hollow skull is static.

 

 

“You were there for the murders, right?” Seungkwan asks one night over the scraping of utensils on ceramic.

 

Mingyu sets his fork down and looks up.

 

They always ask, it’s unavoidable once they know. “Why do you want to know so bad?”

 

Seungkwan at least has the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just… I want to know more about you.”

 

The line falls flat, Seungkwan knows it does, so he braces for impact, the lines of his face pulling taught in preparation for hitting the wall, for shattered glass and asphalt that comes with it.

 

There is something nice in the knowing, in the holding and withholding of information. This is: an instance where Mingyu is control of his own narrative.

 

The picture he paints is not a pretty one, but at least it’s better than the truth.

 

“There are better things to know.”

 

 

Minghao rolls into town with the wind, which is always to be expected. Mingyu lets him stay at his place because, really, he knows his friend doesn’t have the money to pay for a hotel room.

 

“How’s he doing?” Mingyu ventures as they stand shoulder to shoulder cutting tomatoes.

 

Minghao’s always been better at the whole _emotional availability_ thing than Mingyu is regardless of what Minghao himself says.

 

“Seungcheol? He’s fine.” The faux-flippant tone all but gives Minghao away immediately. He pauses and then adds, “Anxious. Always looking for the next town to save.”

 

“Thought he was done with all that.”

 

“He did say that, didn’t he?” Minghao laughs, his smile wry, half submerged in exaggerated disdain. “He’s keeping himself busy, I guess. He wants my help _and_ my attention. Selfish bastard.”

 

If selfish meant _relentlessly giving_ , perhaps the description would be apt.

 

“Do you think you’ll join him?” Mingyu has the knife gripped tight in one hand. He watches the blood rush from his knuckles.

 

“Well, I would. It’s just,” Minghao struggles to find words for a moment. “You know what it’s like. I kind of wish I could go back in time and… do the right thing the first time.”

 

They haven’t really ever talked about this part, about the running. Minghao was more graceful in his in that he didn’t leave town. He simply draped sheets over every mirror in his home and became a hermit, made Seungcheol bring him food until it was all _over_. Until the streets stopped running red and his reflection no longer had anything to say.

 

Mingyu nods slowly.

 

“If you could do it over again, would you stay?” Minghao asks, and the sound of his voice echoes throughout the room.

 

They are both trapped in the stone casings of ancient effigies, Mingyu wonders what it takes it make it out, to punch through the limestone carcas and breathe in fresh air.

 

Mingyu’s been having a lot of trouble with the truth lately. But maybe, for Minghao, he can try a little harder.

 

“I don’t know,” he answers.

 

If that’s not the truth, Mingyu really doesn’t know what would be.

 

He puts the knife down.

 

 

Seungkwan’s already broken a sweat by the time Mingyu walks into the gym down the street. As soon as he sees his neighbor, Mingyu contemplates walking right back out.

 

He doesn’t.

 

Maybe because there’s something nice in observing, in watching Seungkwan’s back drift apart and back together in the mirror.

 

Seungkwan’s shadowboxing near the center ring, his bangs plastered to his forehead as he bounces lightly around the mat. He makes it look easy, almost, but Mingyu knows from experience that it’s anything but.

 

His feet leave indents on the foam and Mingyu tries to parse something from their impermanence.  

 

Step, hop, hop, step. Seungkwan’s got his hands out in front of his face, taking jabs upwards toward an imaginary taller opponent as the fan spins relentlessly above his head. He knows he’s being watched.

 

There’s a pattern to it and the longer Mingyu stares, the wider the Seungkwan’s smile gets.

 

“Need a sparring partner?” Mingyu asks once Seungkwan stops to breathe. Once he punches all of the air out of his own lungs, no longer hollow but filled with the same sweat and blood that runs down his knuckles.

 

The police officer doesn’t say anything, just nods his head as he struggles to catch his breath.

 

“Didn’t know you boxed,” he manages after a moment, nostrils flared, eyes sparkling.

 

“Now you do.” Mingyu shrugs as he wraps his hands.

 

They step into the ring and they don’t leave until Mingyu sees stars.

 

 

“Need another ride?” Seungkwan’s got two oranges this time, both half unpeeled and he shoves one into Mingyu’s hands and makes a face like consumption is compulsory.

 

The fluorescent light fastened to the roof of the bus stop flickers petulantly, says _let the cute boy take you home_.

 

“Is this your beat?” Mingyu asks, shoves one slice of orange in his mouth and recoils at the taste. It’s dry. “You’re not in uniform.”

 

Seungkwan pouts. “Can’t you just let me rescue you without an interrogation?”

 

Seungkwan would look very at home licking melting ice cream from a waffle cone. Mingyu’s mind supplies him with a list of things people could do with lips like those. He files all of them away for later.

 

“You do realize it’s kind of weird for you to be at a bus stop when your car is parked a block away.”

 

“I like this stop,” Seungkwan says as if that’s a better explanation.

 

“That’s even weirder somehow.”

 

There’s a few things here that don’t quite add up in his head. The ghost in his apartment rises up to the forefront of his mind as he watches Seungkwan’s face contort.

 

“Says the guy that enjoys getting his ass handed to him on the daily,” Seungkwan says finally, taking one step forward to tap the center of Mingyu’s forehead lightly. “You can’t call me weird when you are the way you are.”

 

“That’s mean,” Mingyu says, eyes going crisscrossed in an attempt to follow Seungkwan’s finger.

 

His skull burns beneath his skin, his hollow skeleton rattling in the wind.

 

A bus rolls up screeches to a stop right in front of the two of them and Seungkwan startles terribly, hand going to his belt where there would be a gun, if he were in uniform. It’s not the bus Mingyu takes home. In fact, it doesn’t look like it has a number on it at all.

 

The wheels never stop turning, even while the bus idles. Mingyu’s eyes follow them as they spin along frantically, like the wheel of fortune they turn and turn but never stop, never land on anything better than uncertainty. Seungkwan inhales sharply.

 

The bus driver waves but doesn’t open the doors. Seungkwan waves back.

 

Then, he drags Mingyu away by his elbow.

 

 

Mingyu’s getting better at landing punches against Seungkwan’s ribcage. The impacts travel up his arm into his shoulder and it feels good, it feels right to hit something solid, something real.

 

What doesn’t occur to him is that the lungs are hollow. That what’s inside Seungkwan’s chest hasn’t got any more substance to it than anything else around them. Mingyu beats his fists against the casing of a human being, thinking he’s accomplishing something more than the pain would suggest.

 

Seungkwan sweats all the way down to his core, bobs and weaves like he’s got something to prove. Which he doesn’t. Mingyu’s already convinced he’s never met anyone like him.

 

The statues outside of the museum mock them in their stasis. If Mingyu and Seungkwan were to freeze in the moments just before impact, the milliseconds before something hoped for becomes the consequences, they would fit right in.

 

Mingyu’s half stone already.

 

Seungkwan’s uppercut lands and Mingyu’s left staring up at the ceiling. Then, he’s left staring up at Seungkwan.

 

Seungkwan’s teeth are flashlights and his smile burns itself into the inside of Mingyu’s eyelids.

 

 

Mingyu’s almost too busy staring at the barrel of the gun to notice the manila folder that rests beneath it. Almost.

 

 

Mingyu buys a burner phone and punches a number in quickly while he’s on his lunch break.

 

It takes him fifteen minutes to compose one text message.

 

_Hey, it’s me. Sorry. Tell everyone I’m fine. Just wanted to let you know I think you were all so brave. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. Sorry I wasn’t good like you. Sorry I ran away._

 

Then, _And please don’t send me 27 text messages at once. That was a little much._

 

 

The hole in Mingyu’s chest was created painstakingly through a series of train rides and floating destinations. Even now, he’s not sure he can stay for long.

 

Seungkwan has two hands in Mingyu’s hair. He’s not quite sure how that happened.

 

“You’re thinking,” Seungkwan says, lips ghosting along the shell of Mingyu’s ear.

 

The statues across the street inhale as one.

 

“Am I not allowed to?” Mingyu replies easily, falling back into things slowly. It’s like waking up from a dream, he’s still not sure what’s real in this moment.

 

“You’re allowed to,” Seungkwan talks into a spot just below Mingyu’s ear. “It’s just not something you’ve been known to do.”

 

Seungkwan’s breath fans over Mingyu’s neck and he shivers. Definitely not a dream.

 

Mingyu can’t take his eyes off Seungkwan’s lips, can’t stop thinking about leaning forward and wrenching the two of them out of this sea of limbo, of finally breaking the surface of the water, of inhaling and feeling only stone.

 

“That was mean,” Mingyu protests, but it’s weak and Seungkwan knows it is.

 

“So I’m in character, then.”

 

Mingyu’s heart beats in tandem with the quick, shallow breaths he takes in. Seungkwan puts a hand on his chest and reminds him that the air will still be there, later.

 

He doesn’t quite know where to put his eyes, can’t bear to look at Seungkwan for more than a few seconds at a time. He settles on his own forearm instead, marvelling at the faded blue of his veins against his skin. They travel up, up, up until somewhere along the way where they connect with what keeps him sane, keeps him going. They fumble and criss-cross, but they all end up at the same place, eventually. It’s in knowing that the path matters very little, that no matter how long it takes, they’ll find their way home.

 

“You don’t ask many questions,” Seungkwan says, fully in Mingyu’s lap now, arms draped over Mingyu’s shoulders to play with his hair.

 

That’s because he knows all the answers already.

 

“Do you want me to?” Mingyu leans forward and Seungkwan mirrors his movement, tilting his head backward.

 

He huffs, hands pulling at the strands of hair at the back of Mingyu’s neck. “Of course.”

 

“Okay.” Mingyu blinks three times. Slowly, deliberately. “Can I kiss you?”

 

 

Seungkwan hits with purpose, hits like he’s resigned to breaking bones.

 

Mingyu wants to hit, to be hit, to throw himself right in front of a speeding car. The punishment is in the pain, not the other way around.

 

He’s getting what he deserves every time the breath is forced right out of his lungs, every time he ends up wheezing on the mat.

 

Seungkwan picks him back up, they bump fists, and begin again.

 

 

There’s got to be some secret in the way Seungkwan’s hands travel down Mingyu’s sides, spindly and eager. Seungkwan is trying to get at something within Mingyu he isn’t quite sure he’s ready to give up just yet.

 

He tastes like oranges, which is somehow not surprising at all.

 

 

“I’ll really for real cry if you slam this door in my face,” Seungcheol almost yells, hand firm on the wall.

 

Really, Mingyu should have seen this coming.

 

They heat up week old ramen and watch some American movie Seungcheol’s fond of. Seungcheol doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t look at Mingyu with contempt.

 

Mingyu isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu says in a lull between fight scenes.

 

A train rattles by and flashes bits of light across Seungcheol’s face, darting along his features one at a time. “I know.”

 

The statues across the street turn toward the two of them, watch along as lady Justice and her scales decide whether or not Mingyu deserves his fate. If he’s a good person, if the bad in him outweighs everything else.

 

“There’s some bad in all of us,” Seungcheol says, looking down at his fingernails, picking the dirt out of his skin. “No ones… no one’s perfect, right? Some of us are worse than others but… I mean, I think it was about acknowledging that. About knowing that parts of you are shitty and working on it, not keeping it all locked away forever. It wanted you to fail, so… it showed you the worst part. And no matter how small that part is, or was, it was still a part of you.”

 

Mingyu swallows. There’s smoke in the bathroom and a body on the roof and Mingyu knows, he knows now that there are some things that never leave you, that you can’t run away from.

 

He takes the compact mirror in his head and hurtles it across an ocean but it always makes its way back to him one way or another. It’s here, now, in Seungcheol.

 

“I wish I could take it back,” Mingyu says finally.

 

The words hang in the air and Seungcheol at least has the decency to swat them away with one wave of his hand. “I know.”

 

This is the exact opposite of what Mingyu had been fearing this whole time. He forgets to cry.

 

“You guys were so--”

 

Seungcheol shushes him frantically, pointing a finger at the TV screen. “Shut up, you’re missing the best part!”

 

 

Seungkwan walks into the room and he’s so light on his feet that Mingyu almost doesn’t realize he’s there until he speaks, sleep pulling at the edges of his voice. “Come back to bed, it’s cold without you.”

 

Mingyu turns and points the pistol straight at his chest instead.

 

 

“He’s not here right now,” Jihoon sighs into the receiver, words full of feigned exasperation. “Can I help you?”

 

Mingyu hesitates, has his thumb on the disconnect button even as he opens his mouth to speak. “How’d you know? With Jeonghan, how’d you know?”

 

He can almost feel Jihoon roll his eyes. A door slams somewhere in the background. “I dunno,” Jihoon says and his voice has lost all its bite, is now filled with unabashed affection. “I just woke up one day and he was… I mean, he was all I thought about before, but it was different. He just made me feel like things were going to be alright.”

 

“I’m sorry this is so fucking stupid, I’m just…”

 

The embarrassment is almost enough to melt Mingyu on the spot, to hang him up in the trees from his wrists.

 

“Confused, probably.” Jihoon’s gentle laugh comes as a relief. “Call back later, maybe. Ask Jeonghan about it, he’ll probably have more to say than me. But you’re only allowed to ask him if you report back to me afterwards, alright?”

 

Mingyu smiles. “Of course, hyung.”

 

 

“Okay, it’s not what it looks like.” Seungkwan has his hands in the air and Mingyu has one gun firmly in his grasp. There was certainly a sequence of events that led them to this point. Mingyu’s fuzzy on the details. “And I know how that sounds, but--”

 

“You’ve been lying to me.” Mingyu waves the gun with more purpose, looking for any change in Seungkwan’s disposition, in the way he carries himself. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me for _him_.”

 

“I wasn’t just doing this for Joshua,” Seungkwan says, voice betraying nothing, no fear, nothing.

 

Somehow, the statues don’t react this time.

 

Mingyu breathes out his nose, panic high and uncomfortable in his chest. He taps his own temple with the barrel of the gun.

 

Holding the pistol feels like holding the compact mirror, feels like the waving bus driver. The whispers send a cold chill down his spine, freeze him where he stands.

 

“I thought I was fixed,” Mingyu says, forgetting to breathe evenly, sucking up all the air in the room, becoming more and more hollow with every second. “I was supposed to be fixed, it was supposed to be over.”

 

“It doesn’t work like that,” Seungkwan inches forward and he’s infuriatingly _calm._ “You can’t just run and expect for everything to be fine. It _follows you_ because it’s part of who you are.”

 

Seungkwan takes two steps forward and Mingyu grist his teeth, grips the gun tighter in his hand. His veins meander across his body and feed back into his heart.

 

He thinks of Death and all his promises.

 

He thinks of how he cares too much to pull the trigger.

 

“Look, I’ll explain everything,” Seungkwan says, and he’s speaking underwater, he’s got the lungs of a fish, he’s not real. “I just didn’t think you’d believe me.”

 

“I believed in you! How fucking stupid is that!” Mingyu shouts and finally, _finally_ Seungkwan takes a step back. He knows he’s being loud, knows his landlord lives just across the hall. He finds he does not care. “I’m such an idiot I should have known, I should have seen this coming from a mile away. This is so fucked, I talked to Seungcheol and everything, why didn’t it _fix me?”_

 

“That’s not how any of this works.” His face still betrays nothing, and the anger and confusion and panic in Mingyu’s chest reaches a peak. “It… it doesn’t matter, right now but--”

 

“It fucking matters,” Mingyu seethes, pressing the cold barrel of the gun harder into the side of his head, finger hovering over the trigger, trying, fucking trying to get some kind of reaction. “ _This_ matters! You don’t care that I’m doing this! And don’t tell me it’s not loaded, I’m not stupid.”

 

“You’re not stupid,” Seungkwan’s expression softens. He takes a few more steps until he can rest his hand on Mingyu’s forearm, until he can slip the pistol from Mingyu’s grip and cradle it in his hands. “It’s just not a gun.”

 

 

“You’re getting sloppy,” Mingyu teases as he ducks under a particularly poorly timed punch.

 

“Am not,” Seungkwan huffs, sliding out of range throw Mingyu off balance as he jabs downward. It works, unsurprisingly, and Mingyu ends up sprawled out across the mat, staring up at the perpetually moving ceiling fan.

 

“Damn, I take it back I guess,” he chokes out around the stone in his throat. “Boo Seungkwan is king of kicking my ass.”

 

Seungkwan laughs as he lets himself fall to the ground by Mingyu’s side. “Want an orange?”

 

“Why, do you have one with you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why’d you ask?” Mingyu smiles despite himself, reaching over to hit Seungkwan lightly on the arm because he’s too tired for anything else.

 

Seungkwan just shrugs. “One more round?”

 

Mingyu sighs, sitting up as Seungkwan jumps to his feet gracefully.

 

“Just remember,” Seungkwan starts as he bounces on his heels, “Seungcheol and Joshua need us Monday, so don’t go wearing yourself out, dipshit.”

 

“That’s dipshit _hyung_ to you.”

 

Seungkwan rolls his eyes, a talent he’s perfected from too many movie nights with Mingyu and Soonyoung.

 

He holds a hand out and Mingyu takes it. Seungkwan’s got two eyes that stare right through Mingyu’s chest and into his emptiness. This is something he could run from along with this town, the statues, the compact mirrors and the closets. But he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he learns what it is to feel again. 

**Author's Note:**

> a lotttt of the dialogue from the gun scene was lifted from the fic i based this off of! and some of the structure of the last few scenes but other than the structure everything else is mine
> 
> if you made it this far u deserve a fucking medal.... thanks for reading?? this is super self indulgent 
> 
> im on twt @booseoks all i do is fawn over Mr Boo Seungkwan and Cry


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